


the wrong end of a very long tunnel

by itsahockeynight



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018-2019 NHL Season, 2019 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Angst, Anxiety, Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, undiagnosed mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 08:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18546127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsahockeynight/pseuds/itsahockeynight
Summary: Everyone says he never panics, that he’s so calm no matter what happens. They don’t know that it’s learned, that he forced himself to hold on until it became habit, then instinct. He’s calm because he has to be. He’s calm because the alternative is losing control.





	the wrong end of a very long tunnel

**Author's Note:**

> \- this fic is 200%, absolute fiction and _not_ a comment on the real lives of the people depicted within. also, if you are/know the people depicted within, this is not for you, close the tab, eat some chocolate, don't come back.  
> \- [this (after R1G4)](https://twitter.com/hockeykot/status/1119053786356617218) was the inspiring incident. I don’t think I feel the same way as a lot of people seem to feel (“horny” appears to be the dominant emotion) when I watch it, and uh, fic happened  
> \- like many fictional depictions of anxiety, this one is a little dramatized, and a little contrived to serve the story. my personal experience of anxiety isn’t universal, but I have drawn on it a bit to write this, as well as countless other people’s experiences that I’ve read/heard/etc. but like the way Hollywood often depicts amnesia, this fic isn’t psychologically accurate. if you need some more specific content warnings, I’ve put them in the end notes  
> \- tbh, I did intend this to be heavier on the _comfort_ than the _hurt_ , but fics sometimes steal the pen from you and run off :/ sorry (there’s still comfort, I promise!). guess I’m exorcising some bad energy with this one, as opposed to boosting the good energy  
> \- title from Richard Siken’s “Straw House, Straw Dog”

It’s unacceptable. He knows it, they know it, everyone knows it. Nicklas can’t even break his stick properly, that’s how terrible tonight is.

He yells at them first, still in all his gear except for the gloves. Some of them won’t make eye contact with Nicke at all, staring instead at his feet, the ceiling, the wall behind him. Others look back defiantly. It doesn’t matter. What happens in the video room, in practice, in the next game – that’s what matters.

Nicke yells at them anyway.

Alex follows him, quieter but no less forceful. Then they let Coach in, and he yells some more. Nicklas doesn’t listen to them, barely heard himself. What’s important will get repeated tomorrow, what isn’t important isn’t worth fighting through the haze for. They’re saying Team Things, and Nicke can’t process Team Things right now.

Everyone says he never panics, that he’s so calm no matter what happens. They don’t know that it’s learned, that he forced himself to hold on until it became habit, then instinct. Panic is a private, unpleasant thing, and it used to make his skin crawl that people could see him like that. He’s calm because he has to be. He’s calm because the alternative is losing control. Control is all he has left, sometimes. He has to stay calm.

He holds on in the shower, on the bus, on the plane. There’s nothing playing through his headphones, he just needs the noise cancelling so he doesn’t spend the whole time fighting the urge to look around, to see if anyone’s whispering about him. Instead he runs through the same hand and arm exercises until his muscles feel like jello and he knows he’s unhurt. It’s too early to be worrying about his hands.

The car drive home barely registers. It takes him three tries to undo his seatbelt, but only one to unlock his door. He drops his bag next to the shoe rack.

He spreads his fingers over the cold marble countertop, sharp edge digging into his hip. The walls aren’t coming closer. They’re not. He can’t –

Nicklas throws his arms out to protect his face, and something crashes to the floor.

* * *

Someone is touching him. Nicke feels strange, like he’s underwater. Someone is wheezing, like they’re having an asthma attack.

It’s Nicke’s arm they’re touching. He’s not underwater. He’s shaking. He’s being shaken. He feels dizzy.

Is that him, breathing like that?

Like a slap to the face, Nicke snaps back into his body. He can’t breathe. Oh God, he can’t breathe, he can’t move, his eyes are open but there’s nothing to see, like he’s dying, like he’s dead.

No, he can’t, he needs _air_ , please please –

“– please, Nicky, come back, _please_ , you – yeah, in... out... in – Nicky – there you go.”

He breathes in. He breathes out. He breathes in, chokes, but Alex is rubbing his back, and he keeps counting. Nicklas breathes.

His heart is pounding like it’s trying to escape. He’s not dead.

A finger touches his cheek, a hand brushes hair out of his face. His vision is slowly clearing – the blurry mass in front of him is Alex, gradually solidifying. The oxygen rush nearly sends him spinning away again, but Alex is real, so is the texture of the carpet beneath his palm, so is Nicke.

“Hey.” Alex’s voice cracks. “You back? You with me?”

Nicke’s throat hasn’t woken up yet, but his hand works a bit. He reaches up and clutches Alex’s forearm as tightly as he can. He’s here.

“Oh, thank God.” Alex drops his head onto Nicke’s shoulder and stays there for a while. “I thought... Nicky.” He sounds so _sad_. “You never said it was that bad.”

It? “It’s not.” His voice is almost gone. When did that happen? “I – what happened?” Nicklas has no idea how much time he’s missed. He doesn’t remember sitting down. “You didn’t come home with me.”

Alex shakes his head slowly. “You don’t remember?” Nicke closes his eyes again. He remembers arriving home, but not the drive, or anything after. “I went home, but... didn’t want to sleep alone.” That’s right, they lost. Fuck. “And you looked... not good. So I came to sleep here.”

He stops there, face back on Nicke’s neck. Nicklas counts his breaths again until he feels calm enough to repeat his question. It’s like parts of his lungs have been frostbitten, but if he concentrates, he can make them work. Nicke’s gaze drifts over his battered hands on Alex’s – wait, what?

Not his hands. Not – when he lifts one palm there’s specks of blood on Alex’s sleeve. “What happened to – Alex!” If he’s fucked his hands up, if he can’t hold his stick he’s fucked, he’s so fucked –

“– _Nicky_ , in, it’s okay, out, in, out –” Stop. Stop. He has to keep breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

He can feel his whole body again. “So-sorry. My hands...”

“It’s okay.” Alex wraps him in a bear hug. “Promise it’s okay. Just little cuts, you be fine. Nicky, breathe. You’re okay.”

It takes him a minute or two to calm himself again. It’s easier with Alex’s arms around him, holding him together. “What. What did I do?”

“Broke some plates. I think that’s all.” Nicklas looks at him. Alex glances at him, looks away. “I came in when you’re trying to clean up with bare hands, that’s the cuts. They not deep, I checked.”

The cheekbone Nicke can see is swollen, like it’s going to bruise. When he bumps it with his nose Alex flinches, but tries to cover it up with a tight smile. Shit. “I throw at you?” Shit, shit, shit.

“Wha– _No._ Babe, no.” He runs his thumb across Nicke’s own cheek, and Nicklas tries so hard to focus on that sensation instead of the sudden, nauseating need to _get away_. “You tried to punch me when I touched – _listen to me_. I’m okay. I scared you, it’s not your fault.”

“I’m sorry, fuck.” He’s too exhausted not to cry. “Alex. That’s not okay. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be like this.” He’s going to be sick. “Should. Should be better.” Alex brushes away each tear, shaking his head.

“You’re back now. We’re okay, it’s okay.” Nicke tries so fucking hard to believe him. He’s never lost control like that before. He’s never completely blacked out. Sometimes time gets hazy when he’s having trouble keeping calm, but not like that.

Alex won’t let Nicke go clean up the kitchen, or even look at what he’s done. They go up to bed instead. Exhaustion makes him quiet and slow, unable to do more than sit where Alex puts him and turn his hands over while Alex cleans the little cuts and covers them in band-aids. It’s probably overkill, but Nicklas is still grateful. More grateful. It’s soothing, helps him stay grounded. Alex is always so gentle with him.

He’s so fucking exhausted.

“Lie down,” Alex tells him eventually. Nicke obeys, sinking into the pillows. Alex undresses him then gets him into his sleep clothes, threadbare t-shirt and sweats. Familiar things, familiar smells, familiar textures. Nicke pulls his sleeves down over his hands and curls into a ball on his side.

“Sorry I scared you,” he whispers when Alex climbs into bed behind him. Alex kisses the nape of his neck and puts his arm around Nicke’s waist. He’s quiet for a while, so long that Nicke starts waiting for him to start snoring.

“I wish I could take from you. Always worrying, always...” He feels Alex shrug. “Wish we could carry it together.”

“That’s not... You tell me when it’s lying to me. That helps enough.” How many nights have they spent lying on the couch, Alex running his hand through Nicke’s hair as he reminds him that the worst-case scenario isn’t the most likely scenario, that sometimes bad things happen and it’s no-one’s fault? He always stays calm, even when it takes a long time for Nicke to unwind.

Now, Alex hums into his hair. “I know. Still. Love you.” He stops to take a shaky breath. “You should be _happy_.”

“I love you too.” Nicke barely hears himself, but Alex squeezes his hand.

Nicklas doesn’t know how he does it. Alex just – the pressure doesn’t build inside him like it does in Nicky. He gets angry or upset, and maybe it lingers for a while, but it doesn’t fester like Nicke’s emotions do. Alex is in the moment all the time, while Nicke’s reactions are almost always delayed. When they’re losing and he has to talk to the team he rarely knows what he’s saying. It seems to work, but it’s never anything like the jumbled mess in his head. That straightens itself into proper sentences later, inexplicable and deafening terror in the middle of the night, or doubt so heavy it forces Nicke to his knees in the shower.

When Alex goes to bed he just _sleeps._ He doesn’t lie awake for hours trying not to think about how last year was probably the exception that proves the rule. How they’re playing like shit. How there’s some other level they can’t unlock, have never tried hard enough –

No, he has to _breathe_. “Alex?” For a second he doesn’t know where he is, but then Alex and the bed come back. “Alex...”

Alex grunts and curls tighter around Nicklas. He’s asleep. Nicke didn’t wake him up, thank God.

Maybe, if he thinks about good things, it’ll hold it off long enough for him to get an hour or two of sleep. Rolling over, Nicklas lays his cheek on Alex’s chest and breathes him in.

The only thing Nicke’s certain of, one hundred percent, is that Alex loves him. He has years and years of evidence, and that’s the only thing he can always say _fuck you, I know this, this is real_ about. Maybe it’s true that he doesn’t deserve someone like that, but Alex doesn’t care if Nicklas _deserves_ him. Alex has seen him at his worst, and he stayed. Alex let him be there when Alex, too, was at his lowest.

Alex will wake him up tomorrow morning, Alex will go to bed with him tomorrow night. Alex will cry in his arms when they get eliminated, because _he_ finds Nicke comforting even if Nicklas’s brain insists he’s a worthless bastard. That’s real. It’s happened, it can happen again.

Nicke traces his fingers along the bumps of Alex’s spine, breathing in time. He’s allowed to sleep. It’s good for him, it’ll help him play better. And anyway, the world will not end if they lose. He closes his eyes and repeats that to himself. _The world will not end if they lose._ It didn’t end all those other times. None of his teammates will hate him. They’ll all spend time together before everyone leaves for the summer, and it’ll suck, but they’ll comfort each other. Alex will not break up with him.

In, out. They’re together in their bed, they’re warm and safe. Alex will still be there next time he wakes up. In, out. They’re together in their bed, they’re warm and safe. Alex will still be there next time he wakes up. In... out...

**Author's Note:**

> \- specific content warnings: Nicke has a panic attack that involves a period of dissociation. Alex talks him through breathing exercises to help end the attack. later Nicke has to talk himself through breathing to prevent another panic attack. this fic is told from Nicke’s pov, so the narration includes him thinking during and about the panic attacks, and other anxious thoughts.  
> \- if anyone who’s read the fic thinks I missed anything important in the list above, let me know and I’ll add it, I’m not sure how helpful what I’ve written is  
> \- I wrote this on Saturday but didn’t get a chance to post it before the game the next day (Australian time). Nicke had two goals and two assists. So maybe the exorcism worked?


End file.
